The Rules of Negotiation
by BlueNynaeve
Summary: Lothiriel thinks marriage is a contract and it is her job to teach Eomer what that means. But in teaching, she learns more about... her embarrassing wedding night.


"What does love mean to you?"

Eomer's voice startled me as I was laying down my tray of breakfast on my side of our gigantic marital bed.

I peered at my husband of approximately twelve hours. He was gorgeous, lying with his muscular naked shoulders and flowing gold hair against the rumpled white sheets. Sprawled across the pillows, the sheet pulled up just far enough to preserve modesty and which had the opposite effect of firing my curiosity.

I had not really had a chance to inspect anything last night during the consummation ceremony.

Back in Gondor, all the bride had to do was produce a blood-spotted sheet, and who was to know where that blood came from. Here in Rohan, I mean The Riddermark as I should call my new home, everyone in court wanted to witness the literally gory details themselves. Our bedroom is pretty large, but last night it was packed with my new people.

I am almost surprised that we had not just consummated on a table out in the main hall. Except that using the main hall would have meant my parents and brothers would have also watched, and NO, my brain is just not allowed to follow that train of thought.

Strangers made the experience surreal, recognizing anyone (besides Eomer) would have indelibly printed the event into my life's lexicon. I had taken some pains to not focus on any face but his last night.

Fortunately, my husband is gorgeous AND thoughtful. So last night, as soon as the actual trothing part of the wedding ceremony was completed he started preparing me for the bedding part of the evening.

And by preparing I mean getting me good and intoxicated.

Towards the end of the evening, I was sloshed enough that my brain had fortunately only had the capacity for one focus at a time and he had been it. In fact, the only reason I probably do not have a hangover right now is because I am still drunk.

I giggled belatedly at his seriously stated question. Yes, definitive proof of my still drunken state. The fate of nations could rest on my answer, and my ambassadorial tongue is in the possession of a tippled brain. Brilliant. Not.

To fend off having to answer, I popped another dumpling thingie in my mouth and began to chew thoughtfully. Honestly, I probably looked pretty loopy, but at least I was successfully keeping my mouth closed and not drooling. My toes were peeking out from underneath my twisted white nightgown. I had donned it, for the first time I might add, when I had brought the "honeymoon" tray to bed.

I sat with my knees hugged to my chest against the short footboard of the massive four-post bed. My waist-length black hair hung down my back and around my shoulders. I am fortunate that it wasn't tangled, but my mother was Sindarin, so it is thick enough to generally resist such overnight indignities.

Finishing my long chew (my nanny used to say at least thirty times!), I stalled again.

"Would you like to break your fast?" I lofted the small plate of dumplings. The tray was covered with the few plates of such delicacies I had thus far checked for tampering. Another twenty or so laden plates sat on the table near the window. No doubt such bounty was to assure everyone we would have plenty of energy for baby-making.

"I'm fine, thank you," he rumbled at me. I could not read him for amusement or impatience.

Another thing I will say for my new husband is that he has an excellent tongue. I mean, command of my language Westron. I should make a note to get a local tutor in Rohirric now that I am here. Some of the comments I heard last night made absolutely no sense, and I don't think it is just because of my sexual inexperience.

"Are you avoiding the question?" Oh, perhaps he is impatient.

I smiled brilliantly at his deduction and tried to give him my compelling look, the one to which my father wholly credits the Northern Kingdoms treaty. "Yes?"

His lips curled involuntarily into a smile, as he looked back at me, eyes half-lidded, unconsciously seductive in his sleepy regard. Or maybe he did know how he looked.

My new husband was at least seven years older than I and he seemed to know what he was doing last night. He had certainly fulfilled the ceremony expediently despite my flailing limbs and exuberant laughing. I really hope that I had not done anything stupid last night. The whole procession and bedding was a blur of color and light with the occasional clear sensations of ticklishness and indescribable wonderfulness.

"Please, answer the question." My husband still looked amused, but refused to let me off the hook.

"Well it's an emotion just like any other – fear, sadness, hurt, anger, despair." Oops, those were downers, "and triumph, and happiness, and um, tenderness." I punctuated the end of my answer by eating some tart little red berries and then another dumpling when he still looked expectant.

He waited patiently through the entire thirty chews, but when I gave him a bland smile and did not open my mouth to continue, he looked a little disappointed. That gave me a hitch in my belly, but I did not know what he was fishing for and I was not about to start an international incident because I said something stupid while in my cups.

Yes, we had signed the paperwork and consummated the marriage, but the third step to making the marriage permanent was that the petitioned party, in this case my husband, had to file the paperwork with all appropriate jurisdictions. Since we are both royalty and our marriage marks a treaty in its own right, jurisdictions include both our countries and all neighboring countries besides. My husband had three days to send out runners, and I wasn't about to make him rethink the plan before sunset on the third day.

Now you may wonder why the King of Rohan is the petitioned party rather than the petitioner. Well, that is because Rohan saved Gondor in the recent war and its king is like a brother to our king. Since we Gondorians (excepting the Ithilians) were not decimated by Sauron, it behooved us to provide the dowry. If we provided the necessary supplies to Rohan as a dowry treaty, then we could prioritize those supplies above anything promised in previous treaties such as with the aforementioned Northern Kingdoms. Those same Northern Kingdoms who only sent a few battalions instead of their entire mounted male and female population like Rohan had.

I tried to slow my breathing and keep my face bland.

When I think of the sacrifices that Rohan made for us, I am awed. Naïve as it may be, I even get excited about being part of the effort to repay the debt. In return, I get to explore a brave people I had only passing acquaintance with. And everything I have seen of the Rohirrim deepens my regard. They have so little in comparison to the vast grain-fed organizational structures of Belfalas, but are so much more creative and flexible and generous with the resources they do have. I can only hope that any sons and daughters Eomer and I produce are as gallant.

"You don't think that maybe love might be the driving reason behind everything that happens?" Eomer looked like a hopeful little boy asking for cookies.

I tried to stop the mocking eye roll in response, really I did.

Well, yes and no, in the same way that all other decisions stem from emotion. Tides are not driven by emotion, but whether or not to pay attention to when they happen is driven by one's fear of not feeding one's family, by the sadness of their hunger, by the hurt one feels if one needs to send them elsewhere for food, etcetera. Our decision to get out of bed in the morning is to have the resources to defend our loved one's against pain, to provide them with the ability to step past fulfilling need and allow them to actively chase their own absence of pain which I suppose you could call happiness.

That eye roll was the exact wrong thing to do. But now I know that I need to put a whole lot more effort into never putting that look of pain on my husband's face again. There was an answering pain in my belly, a physical sympathetic clench of my ribs, in response to the hurt etched on his face. He could not wipe his face clean either so he closed his eyes and laid his head back on his pillow.

I had wanted him to leave the question alone when he put it to me, but I was not about to let him skip the discussion we needed to have now. I let annoyance sharpen my voice, even though I knew it was not fair of me to channel the emotion I felt at myself onto my new partner. But I needed something for him to focus on rather than his pain.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?" His voice sounded tired - not sleepy, but low and weary.

I took a dumpling and threw it at his head. It hit him on the bottom of the chin. He sat up faster than I have ever seen anyone move. No wonder my brothers laud his fighting prowess – they are fast, but I doubt they could beat him in combat. Truth told, it was a little startling how quickly he was in arm's reach of me, but my goal was accomplished. Irritation (at me, mind you) washed his features now, wiping away the sad lines.

Pushing off the footboard, I levered my knees under me to shuffle forward around the tray and straddle his lap. Between the overlong the nightgown, the alcoholic instability, and ridiculously fluffy down comforter and mattress this progression was nowhere near as quick a process as his sit-up. Nor was it in any way graceful. But again, he waited patiently until I was situated.

I grasped his cheeks so that he could not turn away. "Don't look like that again. If you want something specific from me, you have to tell me. Now, I'm sorry I have not yet laid out the ground rules here, but I'm still drunk, which is your fault by the way, as much as I appreciated the gesture last night."

He stared into my eyes for a moment, before getting that little amused curl that made me notice his soft perfect lips all over again. I glanced up, embarrassed by my distraction only to notice that he was staring at my lips too.

"You're still drunk? How much did you drink last night?"

"I don't know. It was you who kept handing me mead. I couldn't keep track after the fifth mug."

Laughter gleamed in his eyes before he sobered a little. Leaning his forehead against mine, he exclaimed, "Bema! Well, I'm grateful you are still alive this morning then. You are so small I could have drowned or poisoned you on our wedding night. I was trying to make things easier for you."

I smiled at his eyebrows, the only thing I could focus on at this distance, stroking the corners of his lips with my thumbs. "Oh you did! I am utterly grateful that I didn't care there were fifteen thousand people in our bedroom the first time we joined."

"There were maybe thirty people squeezed in, silly."

"Somehow your realism seems like more people than my hyperbole. Thanks for that." I froze at my flippancy, then dropped my hands to cross my arms across my chest and burrowed my face into his neck. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be sarcastic. I have read the protocol books. Really! I have. Just well, drunk, okay?"

He chuckled, the sound and feel a lovely rumbling vibration passing from him into me. "I understood what you meant. It's okay. And I'm sorry too."

I muttered sorry a couple more times into his neck, before realizing that I could easily go back to sleep again. His head was a little heavy as he leaned on top of mine, but his fingers stroking against my back through my hair was very soothing. And he was so warm. I hadn't even realized I was cold, until I pressed against his body.

Startling away, I decided something had to be clarified right now. "Wait a second, what are you sorry for?"

He squinted down at me. I had caught his chin rather hard when I pulled away, and although I still had that lovely numb feeling from the alcohol, it looked like he was feeling the blow. "What?"

"What are you sorry for? 'Cause if it is for the drunk part, I already said that was okay. Dangerous I might add, but okay."

The amused lip curl returned. I knew I was going to willingly make a fool of myself in the future just to put that expression on his face. "I meant that I was sorry for making last night seem overwhelming. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

I giggled in remembrance. "Not that I noticed. All I can remember is the tickling."

Awk! If I liked the lip curl, the full blown grin devastated me. I grinned helplessly back at him, almost losing my train of thought. A long beat passed as we stared at each other in mutual delight.

"We're going to have to practice fighting." Did I mention that too much happiness makes me worry about how it will be destroyed. I know, really cheery of me, isn't it? "My parents keep telling me that the secret to a long marriage is not how you laugh, but how you fight."

He arched a brow at me. "I'm not fighting with you."

"Oh, yes, you are."

"Oh, no, I'm not." His face was torn between chuckling at our childishness and a stubborn desire to not fight.

I tried to explain from another angle. "I don't mean that we should really fight, but that we should practice fighting. When you and your men train, you spar against each other. And then you know the other person's strengths and weaknesses. If we practice debating, then we'll learn each other's strengths and weaknesses, our priorities and lesser cares."

That explanation did not accomplish what I meant it to.

My husband tensed and he dumped me off his lap. He left the bed and I drowned face down in fluffy bedding for long helpless moments before he plucked me up with two hands about my upper arms, depositing me on my feet next to the bed.

His face was hard, his eyes frightened. "I don't want to be manipulated. My uncle threw me… My uncle was…" He took a deep shaky breath and went back to, "I don't want to be manipulated."

Damn it! For the first time in this marriage, I started to feel frightened as well. And it was not my overlarge husband that scared me. Although he could thoughtlessly crush me physically, I did not doubt he was too noble to do so willingly, after pledging to protect me.

No, I felt frightened for him. He was so vulnerable now in a way that he had not been before.

Rohan had been a secondary player until Saruman's alliance with Sauron. They had not the practice with intrigue that the rest of the Western Kingdoms possessed. To hear it told, Rohan had been neutralized from within by a single strategically placed player, unwillingly and unknowingly supplying Isengard until the Battle of Helm's Deep.

The last few battles' victories, where success hinged on Rohan's Riders, had pushed the nation and its commander to center stage. I had mistakenly assumed that our king Elessar had taught his friend the defensive diplomacy he seemed to navigate so easily. Some of the lessons I needed Eomer to learn, like understanding how one was getting manipulated, I was going to have to ask my father to send my own coaches, his advisors, to help with.

The first rule of protection was control. And my one day old responsibility appeared to have none on an emotional level. He might be a force on the battlefield, but it looked like his uncle's experience with wizardry had taught him nothing about the dangers of day to day interactions with professional manipulators like me and my family.

I cursed my weakness from the night before and was simultaneously grateful that nothing had happened while I was off my guard.

The second rule was preparation. I had only received a cursory review of his basics: likes, dislikes, notable exploits, medical history. I should have realized that my new spouse would not know the rules of court.

I started to get irritated all over again about the delay in our travels from Dol Amroth to Edoras. We had only arrived the day before yesterday - I had had no chance to converse with my betrothed in the flurry of ceremonial preparations. The only other time we had met, at his sister's and my cousin's wedding, negotiations had been underway for a Rohirric-Haradric match. I had had other intrigues to pursue, instead of investigating a distant marital possibility, no matter how attractive I found him personally.

"Oh stop that. At least if I'm doing the manipulating, I'll know you're safe. You won't know it, because I don't expect you to trust me yet, but that's why we have to practice fighting. I'll show you what little I know about combat, you'll show me how much you know about poisons and protocol, and we'll start shoring up each other's defenses."

From the expression on his face, he was not convinced. I was just going to have to let him stew on it as my bladder invaded my consciousness.

On my way to the adjoining garderobe, I told him, "We're not done. Don't leave. And don't eat anything on that table there. Anything on the tray on the bed is fine."

When I returned, he was holding the plate of dumplings, munching on one, and surveying the table thoughtfully. He glanced at me over his shoulder.

"Are you saying that someone would poison us on our wedding night, Lothiriel? If they wanted to prevent the wedding, why wouldn't they poison us before now?"

"Weddings are a great time to poison people and intercultural weddings a better place than most," I should know as I had used this to my advantage before, "Special dishes that would cause offense to refuse; the confusion of new people and crowds; the focus on procreation which naturally prioritizes the emotional over the rational."

He raised an eyebrow at my last statement.

"If anyone wanted to prevent this alliance from finalizing, the next three days are the last chance anyone has before you notify all interested jurisdictions."

He turned to face me fully. "No. I've already done that."

I was surprised. "What? When?"

"As soon as we finished the consummation last night, Elfhelm sent the riders."

"But what about the concessions for the Dimholt you wanted? Now you don't have any leverage over my father."

"He pulled me aside right before we left the hall last night and said that I could have them."

"Why?"

"Actually you got them for me. He had wanted to tie the extra percentage points to my pleasing you on our honeymoon and I told him to not be an idiot, because I was going to try to do that anyway. I don't think he believed me, but then you were quite, uh, exuberant during the couples' dance."

I frowned, not recalling any such dance, so he explained baldly, "You climaxed riding my leg on the dance floor, sweetheart. That's when we moved to the consummation ceremony."

Oh, my great Goddess of the Valar! I blushed so hard my ear tips tingled.

I had done something terribly embarrassing, even if the action had produced some good. I was also somewhat disappointed that I didn't remember it, mortifying as that memory might be. I had of course thoroughly investigated the topic of how to please my husband in bed, but except for my own manual experiments and some metaphorical descriptions from my sister-in-law and mother, I did not know much about the reverse.

Eomer laughed outright at my distress. "Don't worry about it, sweetheart. It was a hell of a compliment."

"But I don't remember it at all," I whined. I wanted to stomp my foot too.

He smiled at me, putting down the plate, and coming to wrap me in his arms. And then he did something to my neck that made me writhe and moan. Enough so that I was again worried about what I might do while not having control over my brain.

Yeah, okay, I was not so much worried as completely intent on volubly encouraging him to keep doing whatever it was he was doing. Any rational thought was swept away by the heretofore unimaginable pleasure of his touch.

"Allow me to show you again, my dear," Eomer rumbled as he worked my nightgown off my shoulders.

I moaned incoherently in reply, only able to show my acquiescence by threading my hands through his hair and pressing his head against my breast.

* * *

_A/N: __This would normally go under my "Gondorian and Rohirric Negotiations," but the adult content here is higher than the rest of the stories there. Plus there *might* be more. Knowing me, don't count on it though._

_BTW, this popped into my head after I stewed for a while on the seriously fantastic "The Ugly Duckling of Dol Amroth" by Spake2121. _


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